Shatter
by Roozette
Summary: Draco is a walking shell. Harry can't stand it. He decides to break him.
1. Break

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or any affiliations thereof. I make no money from writing this. I promise JK would never endorse something like this.

AUTHORS NOTE: This is a birthday present for Sarah, one of my faithful "stalkers." She requested something smutty, slightly dark, slightly twisted, takes place during sixth year, reference to another literary work (my choice), and portrays neither one of the boys in a sugary light.

Warnings for dub-con, slight blood play, first person tone (which was a challenge) – though it does change to second person tone about halfway through, and a creepy as hell Harry because I never bought the fact he was subjected to the Dark Lord's emotions and thoughts for two years and never changed his personality.

HDHDHD

It took three hours before someone entered the Slytherin common room.

Quick as a flash, I slipped in behind her; crouched low so my Invisibility Cloak skimmed the floor and hid my ankles. The girl didn't notice; intent as she was to set her stack of books down on the table before her. I ignored her sigh of relief, ignored the hushed murmurs of the other students milling about the common room, tuned everything out as I stealthily crossed the common room and headed for the stairs. The walls smell musky, damp from continued exposure to the lake. I briefly wonder what it would have been like, going from a cupboard to a dungeon, and am fleetingly curious what would have happened had I gone into Slytherin. I brush the thought aside as I enter the dorm room and glide softly to your bedside. The thought is unimportant, irrelevant. I mean to break you tonight.

It started a week ago, this burning fixation on you. I was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, paging listlessly through The Lord of the Rings when I suddenly froze as Aragorn was presented with the Sword of Elendil. One passage seemed to almost possess me, echoing over and over again in my mind. The blade was broken. It has been reforged. I couldn't figure out why that passage affected me so strongly, and slept poorly that night. It wasn't until breakfast the next morning when I saw you that everything seemed to crystallize in my mind. You're tired, pale, thin, with dark circles under your eyes and a listless attitude. The fire, the blaze of attitude you used to possess, is notably gone. You are my Sword of Elendil. Someone has tried to break you and nearly succeeded. I need to break you so you can be reforged into something stronger. Hermione was alarmed; I hadn't wished to express my thoughts aloud. But I was patient. I waited. And now, only a week later, as your behavior grew more erratic and inconsistent, she has forgotten her concern and I was able to slip away from the tower. I nearly gave up hope, after waiting so long for someone to come along. But I was patient, persistent, and now I am here.

Even in your sleep you don't look well. The shadows slide over your body like silk but do nothing to disguise the worry line in your forehead. You twitch in your sleep, your muscles clenching convulsively as the demons that plague your waking hours are not content to let you drift in dreams. The Dark Mark gleams against the pale backdrop of your skin. A mark of ownership, a brand. Silently and swiftly I shed my clothing and climb onto the bed. Someday, I think, as I carefully and quietly close the bed hangings and charm them silent and imperturbable, someday that too will go. I don't know how, I don't know when, but someday the only marks on your body will be the ones I put there. I toss the ball of my clothing and my Invisibility Cloak into the corner of the bed and take a deep breath. "Incarcerous." I have begun.

Your eyes fly open the moment the bindings clamp about your wrists and your arms are forced to the head board. Your eyes are wide, confused, and seem almost out of place. I see them gleaming in the soft shadows of the bed, shining with fear and apprehension. You don't like being tied down, do you? The moment you catch sight of my face, your eyes widen further and your body goes utterly still. I have always appreciated your sense of self-preservation. But you don't make a sound. Curious. Very curious. Is it pride that keeps you quiet? Or have you become so detached from your surroundings that you simply no longer care? Tenderly I lean down and kiss the scars on your chest. The scars I gave you.

"Potter?" Your voice is hushed, suffused with false calm. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to break you tonight, Draco." Though no sound will come through the curtains, I keep my voice at a reverent whisper as I run my hands down your chest and spell away your pajama bottoms. You shake your head once; whether in denial or out of sheer incredulousness I am uncertain. But your eyes are once again flat and uncaring, and that is unacceptable. Has your life become so bleak you truly care nothing about what happens to you? I dig my fingernails into your hip bone, delighting in the reddening flesh. You start to tremble but still refuse to make a sound. I wonder how long that will last? I want to hear you scream.

"It's for your own good," I comfort quietly. "You need to be broken so you can be reforged." You look confused by this, and I inwardly cheer for bringing expression back to your face.

I continue inching down your body until my face is level with your groin. I have no idea what I am doing, having never broken anyone before, but the amount of nerves on the cock made it a logical place to begin. I watch, fascinated and rather pleased, as it twitches under the warmth of my breath. I glance up to find you watching me intently, your hands balled into fists, the muscles in your arms flexed, a look of shocked horror on your face. I smile as I lean down and take the tip of your penis into my mouth, proud as you suck in a breath and your eyes seem to fairly burn into mine.

Does he get it now? Does he understand? I need to break him. I was meant to break him. Because only I can inspire so many emotions in him. Already he looks better; a flush creeping up his face as he watches me.

"Potter." His voice is raspy, whether from swirling emotions or disuse I am again uncertain. I ignore it. He doesn't get my voice, doesn't get reassurance yet. He's still Malfoy and I'm still Potter and I refuse to encourage that. It's all so confused in my head, but I have sworn that by the time I am through with him he will scream my name. My name. Not Potter. Until then, he's not truly broken. But I don't know how to say this, how to express this sentiment cohesively, so I ignore him and focus on his Dark Mark.

It's mocking me. People will argue that it's a mark, not a sentient object, but I feel the malice it directs towards me. So smugly superior stamped on his flesh. But Draco is mine; my rival, my sword, and I am suddenly furious. My mouth clamps harder, the pressure of my mouth increasing. I tear my eyes away from the mark with difficulty. Draco's head is tossing back and forth, his wrists chafing red as he pulls against his binding, his mouth open in a silent scream. I want to suck the taint of the Dark Mark off of him. I want to bleed him. I want him to realize he is mine and Tom Riddle has no claim to the boy writhing and whimpering below me. Draco's back arches and he seems to literally explode in my mouth. I pull my head back, not wanting to choke, and watch the shiny sperm collect on his stomach and chest. I want to taste him, and I will, but not yet. I look up, watching his flushed face intently as he comes back down into himself. I may not know what I am doing, but I am making him feel. And for right now, that is enough.

He watches me drowsily as I lean back on my heels and rummage through my clothing. He's not stupid. One of the first things I'm sure he noticed was that we were both naked. He knows I am not through with him. But he didn't expect the knife I turn around with; his eyes opening fully, his lips parting lightly, a small tremor racing through his frame. But still, he says nothing. "Ssh," I comfort nonetheless, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on his forehead, and another on the scar on his chest.

"P – Potter?" I smile when his voice catches on my name.

"He can't have you," I explain patiently, tracing the knife lightly around the Dark Mark. The snake slithers through the skull agitatedly, hissing an indecipherable litany of complaint. Good. "You're mine."

"Potter, please."

"Ssh…" I kiss him lightly on the cheek. "It will all be better in the morning." He looks at me, gray eyes wide and terrified. I smile, and press the blade into his arm. Draco bites his lip, making a muffled sort of moan, and shifts his eyes to his forearm. I ignore him as I outline the mark. His blood is welling and dripping, so bright and shiny and warm in the darkness. I can smell his sex and blood and fear, and hear his panting breaths, and feel his muscles trembling under my skin, and see his eyes so full of emotion, and… I lean down and lick a drop of his spunk into my mouth. As his taste floods through me, I can't control myself, or describe the intensity of the feelings sweeping through me. My orgasm breaks something inside of me; something dark and unbidden inside me is purring in delight.

Draco's eyes, so bright and full, flick anxiously between me and his arm. Deliberately he sticks out his tongue and licks a bit of me that landed on his chin; holding my eyes as he swallows. His eyes again flick to the knife clenched in my fist and the blood dripping silently down his left forearm. "Potter, please," he repeats; his voice strained. "Wouldn't you rather just t-take me?"

I couldn't answer him right then if my life depended on it, my entire being focused on his mouth. He had tasted me, and I had tasted him. Our fluids were combined. Did he get it? Was he starting to understand? "You're mine."

He nods frantically. "Yes," he agrees. "I'm yours. Potter, please, put the knife away."

It's the Potter that does it. So close to being mine and he still refuses to just break. Why won't he break? "I'm almost done," I promise, returning my attention to his arm. A quiet sob emerges in the darkness, but I ignore that until I finish. I sit back, admiring my handiwork. His skin is vibrantly red, looking like someone took a red marker and colored on him. The Dark Mark is pulsing with agitation. Does the bastard know I am reclaiming what he thought he had won? Draco is mine. I look at the boy in question. His eyes are clamped shut, teeth biting punishingly into his bottom lip, tears falling fast and silent down his face; dripping into his hair and ears before trailing onto his pillow. His cheeks are suffused with blood, his heart beating rapidly in his rising and falling chest. He is so different from the boy who just yesterday moved like a walking shell, a ghost, through the halls. "Beautiful," I approve.

His eyes fly open; a bright gray in the gathering darkness. So vivid, so full of pain and emotion. I smile down at him, leaning forward to press kisses to his mutilated arm. "Beautiful," I whisper again, licking his blood from my lips. He watches me, a curious expression on his face.

"Am I broken now?" he whispers hopefully.

"Almost." I fleetingly wonder why he continues to whisper. Does he think I didn't spell the drapes? Doesn't he think a loud noise would wake his roommates and cause me to end my self appointed task? Then it hits me, and I am so damn proud of him I lean down and give him a gentle kiss on his lips. He wants me to break him. He already knows he belongs to me, that he is mine.

His hair is bright across the pillow as he nods in resignation. "Ok."

Resigned. He's resigned. He's stopped fighting and is simply lying there, waiting for me to finish. The knife is slippery in my hand as I carefully place it on the mattress before sitting back and once again rummaging through my robe. His eyes focus on the bottle of lube in my hand and I realize I was right. He's unsurprised I am going to take him. I press my fingers into him carefully. I did my homework. Lube is important. I may want to break him, but this isn't one of the ways I want to hurt him. Draco's hips press into the mattress reflexively. I glance up at him to see him once again biting his lip. Why can't he just let go?

My inexperience shows as I enter him. I go too fast, slide in too far, and only pause as the muscles surrounding my cock clench painfully and Draco tosses back his head and screams. I stop, force myself to hold still as he pants. His eyes are wide, pained, and locked onto mine with something akin to desperation. "Ssh," I soothe. What do I say to him? I lean down to kiss his panting mouth again, and that seems to help. He cranes his neck towards me, seeking contact, comfort, and I indulge him. He's so close to breaking I find myself giddy with excitement and can't help sliding in until I rest fully inside him. It's glorious. Tight and warm and Draco is keening and shifting underneath me; his wrists beginning to bleed as he tugs against his restraints. My hands scramble over the mattress, not wanting to crush my beautiful Sword with my weight, and I hiss as the blade of the knife cuts into my palm.

The blood welling on my hand fascinates me. Voldemort used my blood and regained his body. It seems fitting to place my hand over Draco's bleeding arm and watch our blood swirl together. "Mine," I whisper again, beginning to move my hips.

Draco is sobbing now, but still trying to muffle his sounds by biting his lip. I lean forward to kiss him again, running my tongue against his abused lower lip, thrilling over the thought of our bodies and blood and saliva intermixing to make up one entity. He latches onto me desperately, trying to suck my tongue into his mouth. I tear my mouth away briefly. It's important he remember this. "The blade was broken," I gasp out. My blood is roaring through my body, blurring my vision. I can barely breathe from the sensation, let alone speak. "It has been reforged."

Deprived of stimulation for so long, existing in a half life for all these months, Draco is unprepared for the sensory overload I am forcing him to go through. Tears drip down his face, his mouth opens and closes with his gasping breaths, his eyes unfocused. "Yes," he gasps out. "Harry, help me!" And then it happens. He breaks. And it is spectacular. He throws his head back and screams and screams and screams as his orgasm rips into him, through him, tearing him apart and reforging him and it hurts and it's beautiful and I can't stand it and scream as well as I empty myself inside of him.

I come back to myself after who knows how long. Draco is limp and trembling and half asleep below me. My bleeding hand is still clenched tightly over his bleeding Dark Mark, and I stare at our mixing blood in awe. But then I mentally slap myself. I have broken him. Now I need to fix him.

I pull out slowly, uncertain if it will hurt him. He winces; whether in pain or, like me, mourning the loss of our joining I do not know. I kiss him, lavish him with whispered praise as I vanish the bindings and the blood and murmur healing spells. He lays there, supported on his pillow, and watches me. His face, just yesterday so cold and detached, is now open and vulnerable. I need to be careful, to show him I only broke him in order to help him. The Dark Mark on his arm looks different, but I pay it little mind, as I gather him close and cover us with the blankets. I don't know if I have healed all his hurts, and he doesn't tell me. He lies there quietly. The only indication he is aware of me being there are his hands sliding down to grip my arms, clinging to me as tightly as I am holding onto him. The darkness in me has abated slightly, and I am content to hold his trembling form and murmur platitudes until we both fall asleep.

I awake long before he does, mistrustful as always in unfamiliar surroundings, and immediately look at him. He's still twitchy, and pale, and far too thin, but now he looks… peaceful. I smile down at him, and tenderly kiss his forehead, before slipping out of bed.

Hermione is instantly suspicious of my calm mood as we walk down to breakfast. I ignore her for now, knowing she'll eventually corner me and get me to confess. Instead I laugh with my friends as I load my plate, until my stomach suddenly clenches and a fission of something courses through me. I don't need the unnatural silence of my friends to warn me, and I turn in my seat to see the object of my fantasies standing directly behind me. For the first time in months, he is standing straight and proud; immaculate in his uniform, and so many emotions, so much passion and zest burning in his eyes that it is all I can do not to jump up and mark him in some way. Indeed, my eyes flicker to his left arm and I am gratified to see a faint blush suffuse his cheeks.

"Harry, we need to talk."

There are still shadows under his eyes but they are fainter than they were before. He looks alive and warm and so bright that I ignore my friends and get up, following him silently out of the Great Hall and down the corridor. He leads me into the Potions classroom and shuts the door. He opens his mouth, shakes his head, and closes it again. I watch him patiently. "Were you in my room last night?"

He sounds so uncertain that for a moment I simply blink at him. "Yes." He nods slightly to himself, looking away as he bites his lower lip. It looks like a habit, this biting his lip. And I curse myself that in all the time I have spent studying this boy I have never noticed the subtle machinations that make up his personality.

"Why?"

I know what he's asking, but I have no way to answer. Because he's Draco Malfoy? Because he started ignoring me? Because he was a shell of his past self and I simply couldn't stand it. I don't know how to say any of that, and in the harsh light of day my confusing thoughts about the Sword of Elendil and needing to claim him seem… feverish and unbalanced. Then again, I've never claimed sanity. "Because you're mine."

He blushes again; studying me with his alive and warm and conflicted eyes, and I smile before reaching out and tugging him closer. He shudders, closing his eyes and making no move to remove himself from the possessive circle of my arms. "You took advantage of me." He falls back into the cloying intimacy of the night before and whispers the statement to me.

"I broke you," I correct just as quietly.

"Why?"

"I can't explain."

"Are you going to help me?"

"Always."

He muffles a sob by biting his lip. I lean in and lick along his bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to be joined with him the way I was last night. He pulls back just enough to rest our foreheads together, trembling as reality mixes with his memories of the night before and sooths over the break in his spirit; strengthening over the wound once again. "What have you done to me?" he whispers, before burying his face into my neck.

I run my hands up and down his back, wrapping myself securely around him. He knows what I have done. I broke him, and reforged him, and now he is mine. I look to where his sleeve has slid up his arm, noticing the Dark Mark is substantially faded. The snake lying listlessly in the skull; looking jaundiced and weak. I should be horrified by what I have done, what I did to him, but I'm not. I'm proud. And as I drop my cheek against the top of his head, I smile.

HDHDHD

So, my first smutty one shot that is dark and twisted. Passable?

Loves!

Roo


	2. Burn

AUTHORS NOTE: Told from Draco's perspective – fun fun! Still in first person format.

Dedicated to Kat since she gave me a list of three things she wanted for her b-day and a sequel to this was one of them : ) Also, for Helen since she read this through for me before I posted it and considered it "goosebumping!"

Loves!

HDHDHD

I opened my eyes the moment I heard the door click behind you.

The dynamics have changed between us; something consistent is now irretrievably different. Did you mean for this to happen? I feel… strange. Open, shut, raw, healed. It's such a contradiction of terms my head begins to spin and my breathing becomes labored. But I can still feel you in me and around me and consuming me in fire, so I shut my eyes and breathe until the trembling in my body stops. Why did you do this to me? What have you done to me? Did you mean to do this all along? Or was this a spur of the moment decision. I cannot reconcile the powerful figure you made last night with the quirky Gryffindor, and rise from the bed; dressing quickly and silently in the dark before slipping out of the room. Gryffindors may make impulsive decisions but Slytherins need to understand.

The library is different when no one is around. Something expectant seems to thicken the air, and I shiver as I wrap my cloak tighter around my body and slip into the archives. I don't know what you were talking about last night, and if you truly claimed me the way I feel claimed then that is unacceptable. "Ostendo sum volo 'the blade was broken – it has been reforged." For a moment nothing happens, and then a gentle whisper of wind wraps around me and leads me to a rarely utilized section. You took your reference from a Muggle? But it must be important to you for you to have reacted so out of character. Shrugging, I pick up the thick tome and begin to skim through it; consciously searching for specific sections. Over three hours later I toss the book aside with a sigh. The Sword of Elendil, named Narsil, was forged during the First Age by the Dwarf Telchar. Containing the elements 'nar' and 'thil,' 'fire' and 'white light' respectively, it refers to the sun and the moon. Narsil acted as a symbol of kinship between Arnor and Gondor, and, by extension, the stewardship of law over evil. The reforging of the broken sword, thusly renamed Anduril, is one of the many prophesied events leading up to the downfall of evil and the rise of man.

I'm thoughtful as I leave the library and head towards the dungeons. Did you know I would learn this? What are you trying to tell me? _"…the sword of Elendil filled Orcs and Men with fear, for it shone with the light of the sun and of the moon, and it was named Narsil… thus Narsil came in due time to the hand of Valandil, Isildur's heir, in Imladris; but the blade was broken and its light extinguished, and it was not forged anew." _Are you that aware of me? I realize my behavior has been off since receiving my assignment, but most people are content to look the other way and brush me aside. Has my lack of fire, of fight, of energy and emotion… has it affected you that strongly? Even now, as I enter the Slytherin common room, the early risers slide their eyes away from me; afraid to draw my attention, content to ignore my shifting moods. Why are you so different? _Always_ so bloody different.

"_Charging from the side, they hurled themselves upon the wild men. Andúril rose and fell, gleaming with white fire. A shout went up from wall and tower: "Andúril! Andúril goes to war. The Blade that was Broken shines again!" _I'm silent, distracted, as I shower and dress in clean clothes. It's funny how easy it is to fall back on routine, and for the first time in a long time I take care with my appearance. Blaise is standing by the end of his bed; frozen in shock or hope or something as he notices me primping. He opens his mouth to speak and I silently beg him to remain quiet. I don't know why _now_ I feel the urge to… reclaim myself. But I do. And this feeling is so fragile and uncertain I feel I will crumble if I'm questioned. Miraculously he remains silent; simply falling into step with me as I exit the room. In the common room, Pansy straightens when she sees us. A light long missing brightens her eyes and a tremble racks her body. She too remains quiet, but the relief of seeing me standing tall and proud seems to send a ripple, a shock wave, a burst of light, through the common room. I'm staggered by it. Humbled. Though no emotion crosses my face as a whisper circulates the room and others hasten to follow.

You did this. You burnt me and claimed me and marked me and now… now I don't know why I am leading the Slytherins to the dining hall or why I am taking pains over my appearance. These lost months of drifting through school have taught me that the way I look is of little importance. Money, breeding, pride, is of no importance. So eager was I to complete my task and save my family that I lost everything I was. Everything I stood for and believed was buried under the shadow of desperation and fear and exhaustion and the never ending tint of failure that colored my vision. Indeed, I feel as though I have awoken from a horrific waking nightmare. Have the stones in the hallway always felt this satiny and care worn under the rough pads of my finger tips? Has the air always smelled of parchment and ink and scented soap? Has the building itself seemed to taste of expectation and new beginnings? Have I always been able to hear the giggles and the gossip and the bickering and students desperately reviewing their homework as they stumble to breakfast? Have the students always looked so innocent? But not all of them do, do they? Some of them look carefree and happy. Others… they're like us, aren't they, Harry? Their eyes have seen too much, their shoulders are heavy, their personalities smothered under the weight of worries children should not have experienced.

I stop in the doorway, gesturing the Slytherins to precede me. Pansy hesitates; looking afraid that I will retreat back into my shell if she leaves my side. Blaise offers a small sad smile and gently leads her away; the others tentatively following behind. It pains me, how disconnected I have become from them. It couldn't be helped. I couldn't have borne dragging them into the walking hell my life had become. I'm not strong like you. You. I watch you, now, as I linger in the doorway. Was it all a dream? Did last night even happen the way I believe it happened? Was it just about sex? Or was it all simply a desperate fantasy my self-conscious induced to help me cope with my new and horrific reality. The thought that I am mistaken, that you are not going to help me, shakes me to my core. I want it to be real. Real in a way that few things in my life have been. Last night you called me your sword. Broken. Alone. With so much potential for more. Well I skimmed that damn tome. All three of the stories. And if I am your sword, then you are The Ring.

One ring to ­­­­­­­­­­­­rule them all, one ring to find them. One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them. You're not powerful in the classical sense, like the Dark Lord or Headmaster Dumbledore. But the things you have accomplished, the lives you have affected, the experiences you have fought through and survived… your personality is overwhelming. It burns those you come in contact with. Makes them linger, hunger for your attention, willing to sacrifice their very lives if you ask it of them. Are you aware? I look between you and the Slytherin table; _knowing_ that if I go to you now… the simple act of walking across the room, to you, will shatter ideals, shock the impassive, and may very well make my life forfeit. But I can't stop myself from putting one foot in front of the other. I've felt the lure of the ring, and I crave more. I hate that I am powerless before you. Can you sense me the way I now sense you? Is your stomach dancing and twisting, your heart beating so fiercely your entire chest aches from the force of it, a fission of _something_ dancing across your flesh and making you prickle and burn?

"Harry, we need to talk."

Such a simple statement yet so hard to say. My throat wants to close over in protest but I force the words out and then you are standing and following me out the doors and down the hall. I don't need to look around to note the unnatural silence of the Gryffindors or the painful scrutiny of the Slytherins. It's too late. It can't be helped. Even now, standing face to face in the Potions classroom of all places, I can't bring myself to care of the consequences that will arise if I am wrong. "Were you in my room last night?" I sound ridiculous. I feel ridiculous. But… my sense of self is so raw and newly rediscovered…the relief that floods me with your affirmation scares me. Is it natural to feel this way?

"Why?" Again, I yearn to kick myself. I am a Malfoy. A Slytherin. I am above ambiguous phrasing, have been taught from birth to be concise and direct and to manipulate the truth from others if necessary. This creeping vulnerability, this uncertainty, I am out of my depth. All I know is that I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't feel. I am suspended in the thickness of the air surrounding us, in the beat of my heart, in the pulse flickering in his throat. And when he smiles, and pulls me into his arms, and tells me _nothing_ and _everything_ all at once… I don't care. I want to be bathed in fire, to be burned and manipulated and reshaped or reforged or whatever he wants to do to me. I want to offer myself up and beg him to do what he will. I want to rip him apart, feel his blood pour over me, crawl inside his skin and let his very essence _devour_ me.

He's pulled me down to rest his cheek atop my head and my neck protests when he grabs my left arm and jostles me from his comforting embrace. The Dark Mark looks sick and I am unsurprised. The brand is supposed to be forever, yet I am unsurprised that Harry Potter has managed to damage that which so many have tried in vain to remove. The Ring has latched onto my soul and even the fires of Mordor could not contain him. I don't care. My emotions are unstable from being so long denied and all I want is for him to hurt me, control me, make me make _sense_ again. I'm jealous of the mark on my arm, diverting his attention from me. I want those eyes locked on mine. I don't care that he considers me reforged and stronger than ever. I want him to burn me.

I'm kissing him before I realize what I am doing. It's hot and sloppy and desperate; I can't stop myself from forcing my tongue in his mouth and his other arm around my waist. I get it. I understand. I'm his and he broke me and claimed me and remade me and I want him to do it again and again until I am whole and this hole inside me is full and fulfilled and… and he is leaning me over the desk behind me. I can feel his hands roaming my body, burning me, leaving a trail of fire that grips me and enthralls me and I am helpless and I _love_ it. "Harry." Your name is a mindless incantation as you take control of the kiss, of our actions, of _me,_ and I can't bother to feel embarrassed or concerned that we may be interrupted. I give myself to you entirely and you _laugh_ as you fumble with our clothes.

Your hand clenches around that damning mark again, your nails digging into the abused flesh of my arm and once again drawing blood as your other hand slides around and prepares me. I'm still somewhat relaxed from when you took me hours ago, but still… the _burn_, the ache, the glorious pleasure pain that rips me apart when you enter me is familiar and different and I shout out in relief as the fire licks my insides and sooths the cracks within me. I know I should be quiet, strong, but my world has narrowed down to you and this and us and I am desperate. The relief that you felt what I felt and want _me – me_, not the shell of myself I had become – and are going to help me, keep me, claim me, is so consuming that my orgasm is merely an afterthought that takes me by surprise and breaks something dark and desperate inside of me. I'm sobbing. And the burn is beautiful. And you are in me and on me and all around me and I am safe.

We clean up in silence. I see you smile as I spell the wrinkles from my clothing and straighten my hair, and I feel giddy that such an everyday action seems to endear me to you more. You look so strong, standing there with your awful hair and awful clothes, and I start talking before I realize what I am saying. I tell you about the manor, my summer, the time I ate an avocado when I was thirteen and threw up for hours. I tell you how I was convinced my mother was the woman from the childhood tale _Rumplestiltskin_ because her hair so reminded me of spun gold. I tell you I'm not sorry for taking the mark as I saw it as a fulfillment of my childhood ideals. I tell you my task. How my father is in deep disgrace and I have to kill your mentor, our mentor, or my parents will suffer. And these tears that I am sobbing are painful; like liquid fire as they course down my face.

Then you're there; sweeping me into your arms, pulling me to you so tightly I can't breathe. And you tell me… not that you'll make it better, but that you'll help me. I'm yours now. Even knowing the darkest secrets of my soul, you maintain that your hold over me is stronger than his or anyone else's will ever be. You will find a way to rescue my parents, will relocate them to Never Never Land if need be. I don't know where that is, but you believe what you are saying and force me to believe it too. Because you _are_ the ring. Men, lords, creatures, covet you and want to control you. But they can't control you. You control them; make them covet you. Those who seek to control you will ultimately destroy themselves. I understand it now. But you have chosen me. You broke me, reforged me, made me strong enough to handle your allure, your power. You won't destroy me. You _will_ help me.

Professor Snape enters the room and I half expect you to release me. At the same time, I am unsurprised when you don't. I know what my mother has done. She went to the one man she saw as strong enough to save me and begged him for help. I can tell by the flicker of his eyelid that he is displeased I have chosen Harry to confide in, but all the same he calmly informs us that the class is working in the library and is there anything he can assist us with before we join them. And Harry, my beautiful brave impetuous Harry, continues to hold me and rub circles on my back while he gazes at our professor with a look I have never seen on his face before.

"Yes, sir. I need you to either kill Professor Dumbledore, or help me to do so."

Snape's gone pale; his hands clenching almost involuntarily on his desk. I should care. I know I should. But my body aches, my soul is raw, Harry has burned me from the inside out, and all I can do is blink lazily. One ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them. A sword that shines with the light of the sun and the moon. Protected. Whole. Together. Unstoppable.


	3. Breathe

Holy Hannah, guys! This was supposed to be a one-shot… not a three-shot! Though I am rather afraid it may turn into a four-shot. Wrap it all up with Harry, hmm?

Still in first person, from Snape's point of view this time! Also… the ending deviates from canon, but canon can still be mostly salvaged. It just worked better, and the ending of HBP always disappointed me a bit.

HDHDHD

The worst feeling in the world is the feeling of asphyxiation.

I remember Draco as a baby, gazing down at him as he lay in his crib, Narcissa hovering nearby with such a conflicting look of love and duty on her face. All purebloods realize that children are liabilities as much as gifts. Children can be used as incentive to get parents to vote a certain way, make a particular commitment. Draco was a particularly beautiful and talented child. I knew from the moment I met him he was destined for great things in life, and was pleased to be a part of it, no matter how indirectly. When the Potter spawn was born I couldn't be bothered, couldn't bear to attend, any of the customary viewing and admiring. In hindsight, this was a terrible oversight. Surviving as a spy all these many years, I know better than anyone to maintain a connection, be it direct or twisted, with both enemies and allies. It is an imperative tool for ensuring survival. But I overlooked Harry Potter. Blinded by hatred, prejudice, jealous, petty emotions I knew better than to indulge in, I missed the opportunity to realize that he was different than James. Different than Lily. And now, the only emotions I am capable of are self-disgust… and the uncanny feeling that I cannot breathe.

I should have known from the moment they met that I was in trouble. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, so much _antagonism_ generated between the two of them you could almost _taste_ the residual magic as they blended and sparked off the other. But what is the opposite of antagonism if not synergy? And _how _does one define synergy? A mutually advantageous conjunction, where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts; behavior of whole systems, unpredicted by the behavior of their parts taken separately. Definitions exist to promote a sense of control out of unfamiliar circumstances or elements. How do you define the indefinable?

Again with the self-disgust. That day, so many months ago, finding you together in my classroom, the way you looked at me when you told me, informed me, I was to spare Draco and kill the Headmaster myself. I felt myself blanche, felt the blood leach from my body and redistribute itself, felt such a bone-deep elemental _want_. The two of you together, Draco tucked against you in a pose that should have looked weak but screamed of strength. There was something in your expression, in your eyes, something dark and enticing and _raw _that I swear I would have seen before had I relied upon my carefully honed instincts. I knew what you were going to ask me before you formed the words, and I amazed myself with wanting to volunteer.

Oh, Draco explained to me the best he could about broken swords needing reforging and rings that capture men's souls. He forgets sometimes that my father was a Muggle. I have read _The Lord of the Rings_, and have read more into it than he can comprehend. My mother inadvertently gave me the tools to become a spy by encouraging me to learn Muggle and magical literature, broaden my horizons, _know thy enemy_. Putting me to sleep as a child, she would kiss my forehead and stroke my hair, telling me about how she named me after Saint Sulpicious Severus – a noble man who broke from his father to follow Christ. He fell away from his teachings, allowed himself to be swayed by fancy ideals, but later repented. Always subtle with the symbolism, my mother. My birth father took a more vicious approach in his son's literary education, giving me the obvious tools needed for a spy to be successful: suspicion of authority, questioning the accepted rhetoric, always looking for the double meaning.

Tolkien was an anarchist. Because it was published in the 1950's, many people thought the _One Ring_ was an allegory to the nuclear bomb that had so recently desecrated Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Whether that were the case or not, Tolkien could have been waxing poetic over coming together to defeat an evil, or discussing ways to ruin societies, I neither know nor care. But searching for the veiled symbolism, and questioning authority, I can see the seductive allure of the ring, and how Harry Potter closely resembles a nuclear bomb waiting to detonate.

A nuclear weapon is an explosive device that derives its destructive force from either fission, or a combination of fission or fusion. Dumbledore failed Harry Potter last year. The boy sought out his Godfather after Nagini's attack on Arthur, and told him he felt a snake rising inside of him. When Black informed the Order, the Headmaster dismissed this, claiming Harry was confused and under copious amounts of pressure. But I knew better. Those Occlumency lessons where I delved inside the boys mind taught me more about Harry Potter than I had ever wanted to learn. Devious, capable, adaptable, resourceful, powerful. Oh yes, the power was ripe in that boy-child, ripe and ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Dumbledore may have had the boys' heart, but the Dark Lord had staked his claim on his mind, imprinted a portion of himself into Potter's soul. I wonder if Harry knows that I rushed that night. That night when he looked at me from Umbridge's office and begged me with his eyes to find Sirius Black. I knew the boy thought of him as a pseudo father, and I rushed, damn near running through the halls in order to reach a safe place to contact him. And when the light side failed him, and his Godfather slipped beyond the veil, I knew by the subtle tightening of Harry's mouth that the darkness in him was spreading, growing, no longer held in check with clear-cut notions of right and wrong.

Yes, I've read his book series. And while Draco may be the Sword, and Harry may be the Ring, the character I have always strived to emulate was Galadriel. A woman, I can hear the uninformed, ill-educated, seek to question. Yet she was near-perfect, ethereal and mysterious, proud and ambitious, with the ability to see into others minds and know their thoughts and hidden desires, subtly manipulate others to her whims. She would have made the perfect spy. Her image drove me to learn the painful art of Occlumency, drove me further to master it. There was nothing outwardly weak about the Lady Galadriel, and much like the Lady of the Light I find myself wanting to turn to Harry and scream at him, "you bring great doom here, ring-bearer!" Yet also like the Lady, I seek to contradict myself by acknowledging that he also brings great hope. Though I am powerless to contain the Ring, I, too, will do everything in my power to ensure it reaches its destination safely.

They meet frequently in the Potions classroom. Draco doesn't understand the symbolism of the meeting place, but Harry does. I watch them together. The way Draco, so talented and strong, bows under the force of Harry's appeal. I watch Harry enter him, control him, mark up his pretty body with the zealous gusto of an artist presented with fresh canvas. And Draco _keens_ and begs and opens himself up for more. I watch them together, hidden in the safety of the shadows, pressed against the damp walls of the dungeons, and when Harry looks up and sees me watching and our eyes connect…. I am not physically attracted to Harry Potter. But I want him. I want the wild power in him, the swirl of darkness in his bright eyes, something integral inside of me wants to lower myself before this man-child and _beg_ him to mark me so that I may feel the purification of release. So that I can breathe unimpeded. Blood status means nothing; Draco has finally learned this after surviving this long and tense year. But letting someone break you and remake you in their image… had the Dark Lord learned to successfully execute this ideal the world would be his. As it is, I am much afraid it will soon be Harry's. And every time Harry brings Draco to the Potions classroom, every time he allows me to watch him break and reform and burn the sins from Draco's flesh until he is quivering and raw and _pure_, he meets my eyes and promises me a similar type of release, of salvation, should I promise him aid.

Nuclear weapons are considered weapons of mass destruction. Even a small nuclear device can devastate a city. I no longer am aware of who I am trying to convince with my token refusal. My Vow to Narcissa aside, I knew the moment I looked at the two of them that I would hold a wand to my mentor's head and end his life. I know this about myself even as I hate myself for this knowledge. I sit in meetings, prostrate myself before the Dark Lord, deal with children and adults and children pretending to be adults, and all the time my chest is constricted and not a word is uttered in protest of the task before me. Dumbledore knows of my vow, is aware of the attempts on his life, yet does not realize his greatest weapon, his Harry, is the ultimate master-mind and new controlling force behind it.

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, long before I am informed the Headmaster will be leaving the castle and Order members will be making random patrols of the hallways. With the knocking on my door I slip into the role I have been taught since birth to play. I stun Flitwick, send Hermione and Luna in to attend to him, and rush to the Astronomy Tower. Yet even as I race through the halls that have long offered me protection, through friends and foes fighting, neither knowing whom represents which group; I am singularly focused on my goal. I wish for privacy, subtlety, so that I may acknowledge my leader in a brief but heart-felt farewell. Draco is there, tears in his eyes and wand shaking in his grasp, but Yaxley and the Carrow's are there as well, the werewolf Greyback smacking his lips in a revolting display. And Dumbledore is weak, crumpled on the floor, begging me with gasping breath to spare Draco from committing murder. Draco hasn't moved from my side and I briefly wonder why. Then my eyes sweep the scene, lingering on the two discarded broomsticks, and I know why he waits. He is strong, but needs Harry to reassure him. I've been waiting for this moment for all my life.

"Avada Kedavra!"

I watch the body rise, suspended with nothing but the glowing green of the Dark Mark behind him, before starting the gravitational descent to earth. And I can breathe again. I force the Death Eaters to leave… and then pause, turning, unsurprised to see Harry Potter pulling off his Invisibility Cloak. Draco makes an incomprehensible noise deep in his throat before flinging himself into Potter's arms. I want to bow before him, want him to rip me apart and plead with him to heal me the way he so effortlessly exerted his control over Draco, but I can't. Like Galadriel, I can tell by the look in his eyes that something inside of this man-child has changed and my supplication would do nothing to ease my judgment.

Harry tightens his grasp of Draco and half-drags half-pulls the boy to the edge of the tower. He stares at the body below, face twisted in grief, tears running unchecked down his face. Draco pulls him close, pressing their mouths together in a desperate clashing of lips and teeth and tongue. Someone draws blood, and Harry licks the crimson drops from the corner of Draco's mouth while I, once again, stand and watch them from the shadows; my own grief tempered with the desperate need for benediction. Where is my promised salvation? Green eyes, dark with power and raw emotions, meet mine. What has changed, what had he done with Dumbledore this night to make him look at me in just this way?

"You were the one who informed Voldemort of the prophecy and made my parents targets."

My lungs constrict. I fall to my knees, knowing we don't have time to resolve this violation of ideals, knowing there are mere seconds left before the Death Eaters flee the castle and my life becomes forfeit. I am a strong man, a spy, a master of difficult to understand magics. Strong men know that sometimes there is no shame in begging, that pride always goes before the fall. Unlike Galadriel I do not have a pool of water that shows visions, partly out of the mind and memory of the viewer, and partly of distant places. I don't know what will become of me. All I know is that Harry Potter has wild magic that I crave, and I cannot breathe while he glares at me with such venom. He is dangerous and captivating, alluring as he stands bathed in the darkness, and I _want_ and _need_ and for the first time in twenty years I don't know what to do.

Draco lowers his head, kissing Harry's neck, his cheek, his eyes, and once again his mouth. "I have to go," he whispers. "_We_ have to go or the Dark Lord will be suspicious."

Harry maintains eye contact with me and I am powerless before him. "No," his voice is firm. "You will stay." His eyes are boring deep into me, easing the pressure in my chest. Tears are falling from my eyes, and still, I will beg him if only he will let me. "This war is not won, yet." He looks away from me finally, a flash of gold catching my eye as I note the necklace he is toying with. "I know what must be done; I will need all the tools I can get."

He has debased me into a tool and I don't care. Galadriel was strong enough to resist the ring, but I am no immortal. I am powerless before him, before them both, and I can see it, am smart enough to acknowledge it. I want him to use me, wish to serve him, because now only he is strong enough to redeem me. I watch Draco, no longer a beautiful baby but a boy on the cusp of man-hood, and I see the way he shines in Harry's presence. He has been rescued, been given a second chance at life. I am not attracted to Harry Potter, but I crave his special brand of darkness and power. I _hate _him, and I _crave_ him, and I _need _him to let me breathe. All I can do is nod, bowing my head, and wait until he grants me clemency.

A simple slash of my wrist and the ward I placed at the bottom of the stairs falls. I half turn, still kneeling on the floor, with my wand raised to protect my _One Ring_ and his Sword from those who seek their destruction. It is McGonagall who enters first, and I relax fractionally as she looks around the room. I know what she will see. Me, on my knees, tears on my face. Draco, burrowed in Harry's arms. Harry, looking older and wiser and more vibrant than she has ever seen him. The Gryffindor who can not lie with a straight face is telling his Head of House how all year-long Draco has been trying to _thwart_ Death Eaters from entering Hogwarts by concocting erroneous schemes to garner Dumbledore's attention. How Hermione and Luna alerted me to the fact Death Eaters were in the castle and I rushed to assist my Godson, arriving just in time to witness Dumbledore's death but helpless to prevent it.

She can't possibly believe it, but people often believe what they want to in times of great stress. McGonagall has tears running down her face as she helps me to my feet and wipes my eyes, softly telling me not to blame myself before embracing me as a friend. I meet Harry's eyes over her shoulder, watching him cuddle with Draco, a look of grim satisfaction momentarily replacing the devastation in his eyes. My placement as a spy is secure on both sides, only one claiming my loyalty. I wrap my arms around the shivering woman, holding her in a light parody of a hug as I nod my understanding. Unlike Galadriel, I did not turn away from the allure of the ring. I embraced it. I am a spy, and thus have no fear of losing my cultivated identity. With his approval, the power, the light, the air, relaxes my chest and fills me; sweetening my very breath.

All shall love me and despair.


End file.
